In Which We Meet A Gypsy

Okay, this is another one of those random ideas, this one I had at work.

But FIRST! Obligatory nod of the head, happy dance, spastic hyperventilation, ecstatic wave to November the First. Do you know what that means? If you've been reading my blog you probably should. It means NaNoWriMo!

And if you still don't know what means (where have you been? Under a rock?), it means 50,000 words written in a month. It means the permission to write a terrible rough draft. It means no editing while you work. And it means writing at least 1667 words a day. Or more. Normally more. It means a month of complete and totally literary abandon. At least, that's what they say.

And I've already made my word count for the day!

I'm sitting at 1,683 words and planning on getting at least a few more before I work tonight.

Anyway! The NaNoWriMo discussion is over, (I may have a post dedicated fully to it tomorrow) so onto the gypsy!

Gypsy

Author is sitting in her chair, chewing on a pencil and staring at a blank sheet of paper again. As she is sitting a woman steps out of the shadows, admittedly scaring the bejeezus out of Author. Really, people should be more considerate and warn her before they walk out of her subconscious. 

Author turns, "Who are you?" She is not unfriendly, just curious and lacking in people skills. 

The woman has tanned, almost leathery in it's age and sun-beaten-ness. Long, thick hair hangs past her shoulders and is bright red, except where gray has begun taking over. Around the woman's mouth are faint lines, and make it appear she is about to smile any moment. 

Her clothing is brightly colored, being a skirt that hangs to her knee on the right side, but drags on the ground at the left, and a shirt that appears no more than a long strip of cloth wound about her torso. Both the skirt and the top have bells sewn into them, so every movement or shift of body she makes is heard clearly. There would be no way to move silently in such an outfit. 

"I am Morhaktihna Kryllmynl."

"Uh huh... 'More-hock-teen-uh Krill-men-ull.'" 

"That is correct." 

"You are Zhahilen?" 

"No."

"Then you are Zhacorahl."

"Yes."

"Why-?"

"I was to be Saralmai. I did not wish it. So I left."

"You left? And made it past the Spine and to the wetlander's world, I suppose?"

"It was not easy, but yes, I did."

"Uh huh. Well, if you would go through that door there behind you and choose a room, I will call you when you are needed. All comforts will be provided for you." 

As Morhaktihna dipped her head and did as she was bade, Author put her head in her hands. What was it with these Zhahilen characters and not following the customs of their people? Most Zhahilen weren't like this. But then again, they wouldn't make good characters if they did as they were expected all the time. 

----

Well, that was something. 

Happy NaNo'ing all!

In Which We Meet Shizake

Hey guys.

So, this is kind of like the Character's on Couches thing, but it's not. Shizake was part of a capcha I got when posting a comment on Jezzy's site. It got me thinking.

So, here we go.

Shizake

Author paces around her cluttered writing room, office, den, whatever you want to call it. It's badly lit, and corners hold shadows, perfect for inspiration to walk out of. But it's been awhile since inspiration has hit. Author is fairly certain that her Muse, whom she has never seen or spoken to, has abandoned her. 

Trolling the internet in search of something, anything, Author comes across a word. 

"Shizake? What is Shizake?" It has to be something. Author knows that. Everything is something. And if it stands out enough to procure comment, it's something important. 

Is it a place? It brings to mind sweeping spires and dangerous cliffs. But no, that's not right. 

Is it a world? Barren landscapes with sweeping winds and never ending deserts. That's not quite right, either. 

Author sits at her overly stuffed chair. It's so comfortable as to be uncomfortable, if that's even possible. Picking up one of the many chewed on pencils on the pristine desk, she brings the eraser end to her mouth and makes like a defective beaver. 

"Wha' ith Shi'ake?" It's rather hard to speak with a pencil in your mouth. 

"I am." A deep voice comes from one of the corners, but Author can't tell where. 

Peering into the darkness, Author finally finds a pair of deep brown- no, golden eyes staring back. As Author looks, he comes into focus. Deeply tanned skin crossed with scars. Sandy blonde hair hangs in a single tail down his back, many different ornaments decorate it. His square, neanderthal-like face with a slightly crooked nose, as if it had been broken one too many times, is rigid in it's glare. 

He steps out of the shadows and Author can see what he is wearing. Very little. Pants, tight at the waist and ankles, but flare out at the sides are dusty and worn with age. His feet and chest are bare. As is his face. 

"Isn't Shizake kind of a short name for one of the Zhahilen?"

"What is your point?" 

Author shrugs. "You speak Common quite well, also." 

"And?" This man would be a hard nut to crack. 

Author shrugs again, but stops as she hears his teeth grind audibly. She turns her gaze back to him, and stops. He is pointing a sword at her. The handle is- 

"Is that bone?!" She's out of her seat and around beside him in a flash. 

"It is the bone of the leg of my Kahlorahkta." 

Author takes a step back, looking the tall man up and down. "You're a Zha'Dahkrah? But your hair-? And the sword?"

"Yes. The sword is made from steel. I gave up my life many many days ago." 

"And your hair-?" 

"I am no longer Zhahilen, I am Zhacorahl."

"You are Forsaken?" 

Author rubs her chin as she takes in this information. Taking a seat back in her chair again and curls her feet up underneath her. "Very well. If you would pass through the door behind you and choose a room, all accommodations will be provided for you until you are needed."

---

*stretches fingers*

Well. That was something. I love my writer brain. 

Have a wonderful Halloween!